


Wilson On My Mind

by hwshipper



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Polyamory, Prostitution, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-04
Updated: 2008-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/hwshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/get_house_laid/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/get_house_laid/"><b>get_house_laid</b></a> prompt 295: House/Wilson/Prostitute -- House with a prostitute (male or female!) and thinking of Wilson instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilson On My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta**: the wonderful [](http://bornbeautiful.livejournal.com/profile)[**bornbeautiful**](http://bornbeautiful.livejournal.com/)

"What the hell happened to you?" House demanded in disbelief when Wilson turned up on his doorstep with a bandage on one arm, a crutch in the other hand, and with the most awesome black eye. "Your wife beat you up?"

Wilson walked inside, moving very stiffly. "I, uh, had a bit of a run-in with the husband of that new nurse in geriatrics. The blonde."

"What sort of a run-in?"

"He kind of caught us in the act." Wilson avoided House's eye.

House insisted on examining the damage. It turned out that the jealous husband had given Wilson not only a black eye and badly bruised arm, but also a couple of cracked ribs. And he had pushed Wilson over, and Wilson had wrenched his knee in the process, hence the crutch. House was eventually satisfied that there was no serious damage, but there was no denying; Wilson looked like a wreck.

Naturally, after Wilson had gotten himself patched up (not at the hospital where they worked, House was unsurprised to hear) and crept home, Bonnie had been incredulous and furious.

"Did you even try lying to her?" House inquired with interest, but no; Wilson had felt the need to make a clean breast of it, and she had told him to get the hell out. Just OUT.

So he had. And now he was here.

"And you want to convalesce in my apartment?" House said in disbelief. "There are plenty of decent hotels here in Boston, you know."

"House, _please_." Wilson fixed him with an imploring eye. "You know I can't afford it... just for a week or so, until I can walk properly again... I just need to give Bonnie a bit of time to cool down..."

House threw up his hands in annoyance. He knew perfectly well that Wilson and Bonnie didn't have any money. Wilson was a poor resident already paying alimony to one ex-wife, Bonnie was unable to find a job she could stick at for more than a few months at a time, and they had a puppy dog to support which ruined rugs and chewed its way through furnishings on a regular basis. But even so, it was a damn cheek.

House agreed that Wilson could move in, and told himself firmly that he wasn't being a sucker. Knowing Wilson, he would cook and clean for his keep.

* * *

A very difficult couple of weeks followed. House's scruffy apartment wasn't particularly large. The lack of space wouldn't have been a problem except that Wilson was supposed to stay in to rest his knee, and after the first few days he was bouncing off the walls in frustration. He was signed off work and spending too much time thinking about what happened, berating himself, and generally making himself thoroughly miserable.

House, meanwhile, was working hard during the day and coming home at night to find he had to cope with a self-pitying and bored Wilson. Frustration mounted for House, as Wilson was failing to deal at all with the larger problem. There were only so many times House could shout, _"You have to stop wallowing in all this pointless self-pity and call your wife!"_ before they were both utterly sick of it. House considered going to talk to Bonnie, but decided it might do more harm than good as she was bound to blame him (goodness knows how, but she usually did).

To his indignation House found himself sleeping on the couch, as he just couldn't get to sleep in the same bed as Wilson in this condition. Wilson took up far too much room with strapping round his chest and bulky bandages on his arm and knee, and was sleeping only very restlessly as he wasn't able to breathe very easily. House initially tried to put his foot down and make Wilson take the couch, but Wilson looked so pathetic trying to get comfortable there that even House couldn't stand it. Wilson also claimed to be too incapacitated to cook or clean, and no amount of badgering by House could persuade him otherwise.

Their own physical intimacy evaporated, too. House allowed Wilson a few days to recover before trying to swallow Wilson's earlobe on the couch one evening. Wilson merely shrugged him off, and House made an effort to be affectionate in a jokey kind of way. "If you're not paying me any rent, you can at least put out."

"Ha ha," Wilson said, not taking his eyes off the television.

House let it go, but a couple of days later when House couldn't resist ruffling Wilson's hair and Wilson pretended to be oblivious, seemingly submerged in stupefaction, House made a real effort to be understanding (for House, anyway). "OK so I'm sure you'd rather be with the silly nurse with the psycho husband... but you have to move on at some point."

"Not--now," Wilson said through gritted teeth.

The following evening when Wilson refused to respond to a hand in his lap, House lost his patience and became aggressive. "You want me to beg, is that it?"

"No, I do not want you to beg! I want you to leave me alone! I have never felt less like fucking!" Wilson finally snapped. "My arm is killing me, I can hardly breathe with these ribs and I can't even walk properly. And furthermore, as fucking around got me into this trouble in the first place, I _really _can't deal with anything else right now."

Rejected, and not knowing what else to say (except "Take some stronger painkillers, you MORON"), House fell into a pattern of coming home with dinner for them both, then leaving Wilson alone in the apartment to go out by himself in the evening. To an extent this was just returning to his usual habits and haunts; however it was also different. House found himself pushing the envelope each time; betting too much money at the off-track betting, smoking more dope, and coming back very late in the early hours. He was offered a line of coke at one particular down-at-heel poker venue one evening, and thought _fuck it_, and snorted it down. He could feel himself slipping into self-destructiveness, he knew Wilson was worried about him, but he didn't care.

One evening they had a particularly bad fight over dinner. It started with Wilson complaining he didn't feel like pizza that evening, continued with House rancorously telling Wilson to go out and get his own food if he didn't like it, went on with Wilson saying that House could get him something else later as he was bound to be going out, again, like _always_, and ended with House exploding that Wilson should _fuck off and mind your own business_.

House stormed out of the apartment, desperate with fury and overwhelmed by frustration. He headed to a strip joint in a not very nice part of town, and after simmering quietly at the bar for a while, paid first for a lap dance and then for a strip in a private room. By this time his cock felt like it was burning a hole in the side of his leg.

He found himself propositioning the stripper, who said loudly that she wasn't allowed to do that, and added softly that he could meet her outside in an hour. House did so, wondering what on earth he was getting himself into. It wasn't the first time he'd been with a hooker (he vividly remembered losing his virginity to one in Cairo, years ago; he'd been fifteen and overawed, she'd been a woman of the world, and had known _exactly _how to play him), but it was the first time in quite a few years.

She took him off to a small, bare room and asked him what he wanted.

"Full fuck, up the ass," he said without hesitation.

"Fifty bucks extra for anal," she said. He nodded and got out his wallet.

They did it. They did it on all fours, so House could only see her back, her ass and her closely cropped hair; and they did it hard and fast, the way House liked to do it to Wilson. House grunted and thrust, and bit his tongue to stop himself saying "_Wilson,_" and then figured what the hell, he was paying for this, and said it anyway. House hadn't found himself in a mood like this before. There were women and there was Wilson; and the two were different; and sometimes House was in the frame of mind for one, and sometimes the other; and he usually got what he wanted, and they didn't interfere with each other. This was the first time he had ended up with one when actually he really, _really _wanted the other. It wasn't great, but it kind of worked. Certainly the immediate frustration was gone.

The hooker figured out some of what was going on in House's head--it was hardly subtle, after all---and afterward she said, "I could have got you a guy, if you'd said that's what you wanted."

"No. Wouldn't have worked," House said shortly. He saw that she was thinking _in denial_ and felt the need to add, "It wouldn't have been _him_." He didn't try and explain any further--it wasn't like anyone would understand. God knows he barely understood himself.

* * *

When he got home very late that night, he found Wilson was still awake, in bed with a book, but looking like he had been waiting up.

House, actually feeling quite good about himself by this time, chirped, "Hi honey, I'm home," and greeted him with a kiss. House knew he smelt of sex and smoke and dope and he didn't care.

Wilson tasted the kiss, looked House up and down, and said immediately, "You had sex." House didn't deny it, and Wilson asked, "Hooker?"

"Have to get it from somewhere, don't I?" House said breezily, and went off to crash on the couch. He stripped down to boxer shorts and T-shirt, flopped face down on the couch and pulled a blanket over his head.

No sooner had he shut his eyes then the blanket was pulled away, and finally--_finally_\--House felt the touch he'd been hankering for. Wilson's lips on the back of his neck, Wilson's hands gently on his shoulder, his back. He felt Wilson move awkwardly into a straddling position above him, leaning heavily on the back of the couch to avoid resting too much weight on the bad knee.

"What did you do with her?" Wilson asked, his voice quiet in the dark room.

"Who says it was a her?" House said, unable to resist teasing, and although he couldn't see Wilson's face he knew from the sudden stillness in Wilson's fingers on his shoulders that this hadn't occurred to Wilson as a possibility, and Wilson did not like the idea one little bit.

"It wasn't a woman?" Wilson asked eventually.

"No, it was," House admitted. "But it might as well not have been. Good hard ass fuck, could have been either--hey!"

He let out an involuntary exclamation as his boxer shorts were pulled down, and then heard the familiar _snap _of latex. He felt cold liquid oozing and Wilson's cock suddenly hard up against his own ass.

"_This_ how you did it?" Wilson asked breathlessly, tugging at House's hip, trying to pull him onto his knees.

"Uh huh," House muttered, then gasped as Wilson thrust, not entirely successfully. The angle was awkward with Wilson resting his weight against the back of the couch.

"You've got two good legs, come on!" Wilson demanded, and House levered himself onto hands and knees. The next push was spot on; Wilson's cock there, filling him, over and over. Exhilarated, House felt beads of sweat form on his brow, and his own cock started to harden despite his exertions earlier that evening. At _last _he'd got some kind of reaction out of Wilson, thank fuck for that, and it was even better than he might have hoped.

Wilson was quick, grasping House's hips and grunting and pumping with little heed for House's comfort. House squirmed and bucked, and savored every damn second more than the last. Wilson came with a rough thrust and final labored breath, and House climaxed right there with him, supporting them both with one hand while jerking himself off with the other.

Spent, Wilson collapsed on the couch beside House, his bruised arm resting on House's back, his bandaged knee grazing House's thigh, the strapping on Wilson's chest tickling House's back.

"I'll call Bonnie tomorrow," Wilson mumbled in House's ear, between heavy breaths. "She'll have forgiven me by now. I'll be back home tomorrow evening."

"_This _is what it took to get you out of your trough?" House murmured, amused and mightily relieved. "Hiring a hooker?"

"I guess it's shown me that sorry-and-make-up sex is fantastic," Wilson said with heavy irony, and House closed his eyes, satisfied.

END


End file.
